


Before

by pippen2112



Series: War Wounds [1]
Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-typical language, Gen, M/M, Not Your Typical Soulmate Fic, Soulmarks, alternative universe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-18
Updated: 2016-10-18
Packaged: 2018-08-23 02:50:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 1,164
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8311042
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pippen2112/pseuds/pippen2112
Summary: Vignettes from life before Red vs. Blue***edit Feb 16, 2017 for formatting





	1. Sammy

**Author's Note:**

> This alternative universe hinges on soulmarks, names that appear on a person's body at various points in one's life. Some people have many names. Some have few. Some have none. It is commonly believed in the universe of this story that soulmarks are the names of your soulmate(s), but evidence is inconclusive.

**Sammy**

Felix talks.  That's his move.  He spins a yarn, tells a story so inspired the sad sack he's conning happily parts with his or her credits.  He's been around.  He's got stories to tell, and when you stumble outside his wheelhouse, his imagination can keep pace. 

Given his rough professions, he's earned more than his fair share of scars along the way. Any scar you point out, he's got a story to fit the mood.  The thin white line across his lip?  He's said it came from knife fights, ex-girlfriend's rings, even a sadistic clown with a fetish for fresh blood. 

The stories vary based on what he wants, what he needs on any given day.  He's short a couple bucks; this scar came from fighting alley strays for garbage pickings.  He wants the burn of whiskey in his belly; he earned that badge of courage shielding a buddy from a grenade during his UNSC days.  He's horny and needs to pretend he's halfway decent; he pulled a rapist off a drunken club girl and got a knife for his troubles. 

Pick any scar, he'll sing you just the right song.

Except the scar tissue on his left thigh, the knot of damaged flesh that reads "Sammy" in a scrawled hand.  He doesn't have a damn thing to say about that particular mark because every time he looks at that long-faded wound, his throat dries up and his stomach churns with some unexplained throb of anger. 

Who the fuck does this "Sammy" think he is?  Why the fuck should he care about some nobody he's never met?  That he'll never meet.

The anger curdles until he drowns it in vodka.  Ain't life a bitch, huh?  He can talk and talk and talk.  Except about Sammy.  The irony just slays him.


	2. War Wounds

**War Wounds**

Wash doesn't take his clothes off in front of people.  Hasn't since he finished basic, and he earned more than a few odd looks in the process.  He knows the Counselor has more than a few theories about his proclivities, probably thinks his psycho-sexual development got mucked up in the high school locker room.  Truth be told, that's irrelevant.  It's not because he's got a history of being bullied, or because he's a walking talking example of trust issues.  No, it's actually much simpler than that.

Arms, legs, neck, and torso, Wash's body is littered with ink and scars.  It seems that every couple of weeks he wakes up with a new name inked on his skin, and every couple of months another name turns to a bloodied scab, then a scar.

War wounds run in the family.  All the way back on his mother's side, everyone has carried more than the normal number of soulmarks.  Last he knew, his mother had seventy-eight scars, wounds, and inks for family, friends, even strangers she couldn't place.  His older sister, married and pumping out her own brood, had thirty-three.  Even his youngest school-bound sister already had fifteen.  He welcomes the people he loves with an open heart. Which explains why he's been burned so much.

After one particularly perilous mission with the Freelancers, a mission that lands both South and CT in the infirmary, Wash trudges into the locker room, bleary-eyed and ready to throw in the towel.  He takes advantages of blessedly deserted locker room and strips off his armor and undersuit.  He steps under a steaming showerhead and rests his forehead against the cubicle walls.  It's been a long week.  A long year.  A long life. 

When he opens his eyes, Wash notices red tinted water disappearing down the drain.  Blood?  Where the hell was he hit?  Brow furrowed, he checks himself for injuries and finds a once dark name on his hip now bleeding down his leg.  He swipes his thumb through the mess and reads the jagged writing beneath it:  "Isaac." 

Wash's chest constricts.  He's had that mark for years and years, since he was old enough to know what a soulmark was.  Though he can't place the name to anyone in his memory, the sight of blood sticks in his craw.  It might not be his first mark, but its definitely one of the oldest that hadn't scabbed and scarred over.  Wash allows himself a minute to mourn a man he's never met, then clears away the blood and scrubs himself clean. 

In the grand scheme of things, Isaac is just another someone Wash has lost.  At least this time, Wash never knew what he was losing.  Ignorance makes it easier.  Sometimes.  That's what he tells himself.


	3. Exoskeletons

**Exoskeletons**

His mother first explains the marks when he's six, the names scrawled on other people's skin.  "We call them soulmarks, chico.  They appear when they are meant to.  They show the name of the people who touch your soul." 

As she speaks, her hand moves to cover the scabbed name along her collar bone.  His eyes narrow.  "You're hurt."

Her eyes turn misty and she looks away from him.  "Our souls are not meant to be alone."

Later, he disappears into the bathroom and strips in front of the mirror.  He searches every inch of his dark skin.  Under his arms.  Behind his knees. The small of his back.  Everywhere looking for the slightest blemish.  Nothing.  Not a single word or scar. 

He lets out a breath he hadn't known he was holding.  He's never been good with people.  He wouldn't let something as trivial as other people wound him.

Over the years, this mentality clings to him, molds him into something stronger.  He does not leave the house in less than long sleeves.  Keep covered.  Keep hidden.  Keep your secrets so close they shield you.  Mostly this has served him well, but the few times he's let anyone in, they've burned him and left him for dead.  Fool.  He does not make the same mistake twice.  Perhaps that's why he warms to his codename: Locus.  An armor meant for distance.

One morning, as he performs his ablutions before donning his armor, he spies a blood red mark along his forearm and pales.  It reads "Wash," cut deep in tiny block letters.  His heart skips a beat.  He rubs his thumb across the fresh wound, trying to wear away the word.  It only stings to the touch.

He's familiar with the lore of soulmarks.  Everyone has a theory about what they signify.  Some believe they are gods meddling in a world best left to its own devices.  Some think they're the names of soul mates.  Some assume they've no meaning at all.  But Locus recalls an old wives tale he heard from another ex-soldier: "Gold marks lovers, green marks kin, black marks comrades, red marks sin."  He'd enjoyed the man's company before he put a bullet in his skull.

Locus stares down at the simple name, and bit by bit, he grins.  He's never put much stock in lovers, kin, or comrades, but an enemy?  An enemy could prove interesting.

**Author's Note:**

> Any questions, comments, concerns, or constructive criticism is welcome. I have a rough chronology outlined for this series, but I'm open to expanding it.


End file.
